


War Dog

by Metallic_Sweet



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Classic Mode Mechanics (Fire Emblem), Depression, Dogs, Fishing, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Loyalty, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Power Dynamics, Sharing a Bed, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-02 11:16:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20275033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metallic_Sweet/pseuds/Metallic_Sweet
Summary: In those idyllic Academy days, Dimitri adopts a dog.





	1. Chapter 1

**i.**

A dog is whelping beneath the dormitory foundation. 

Dimitri discovers this on an early spring evening when he is unable to sleep. The Knights and Training Halls are both locked, and his head hurts too much for him to attempt a lockpick in the dark. He had taken the long way back from the Knight’s Hall, circling towards the marketplace and past the fishing pond. The walk loosens his muscles but is not strenuous enough to calm his mind. It is quiet and nearly cold weather, the scent of vegetation around the greenhouse in the breeze. 

_You don’t deserve this,_ his father’s voice hisses in the back of his head. 

_I know,_ Dimitri starts to think before he hears the whimpering and squeals. 

There is a light on in the window above the sound. Bernadetta has her window open, and she leans out it in her night clothes, hair falling forward around her face as she peers down. Her arm is extended downwards, a candlestick to illuminate beneath her flowerbox. She doesn’t notice Dimitri’s approach until he deliberately steps hard on a dry twig. It causes her to jolt badly, her arm flailing upwards and nearly dropping the candle. 

Dimitri holds his hands up. Bernadetta stares at him, mouth open and cheeks flushed.

“Dimitri!” she says, hushed and nervous.

_She’s right to be frightened,_ his stepmother whispers.

“Good evening, Bernadetta,” he says, resisting the urge to cradle his head. “What is that sound?”

“Oh!” she says. 

Her expression shifts unexpectedly to joyful excitement. For the first time since he’s known her, the timidness disappears. She leans forward, once more extending the candle down, tilting it just so that the flame is safe and the wax is still caught in the holder while illuminating the scene half beneath the box and half in a shallow hole dug into the foundation. 

“A bitch has whelped.” 

Dimitri can see that clearly now. The mother looks to be one of the brown and tan spotted breeds common around the monastery. There are already five puppies, four nursing and the other currently being vigorously cleaned by the mother. The puppy isn’t responding. It lies there, unmoving from the mother’s intense ministrations. Dimitri stares at the puppy. His vision feels narrow.

“Something’s wrong with that one,” Bernadetta says, although her words filter into Dimitri’s ears as if underwater. “I’m trying to decide if it should be taken away.”

“Taken away,” Dimitri hears himself echo.

She looks up at him. Blinks. Dimitri isn’t sure what she sees, but her entire countenance softens. 

“It might be stillborn,” she says, very gently. “Since you’re here, could you check?” 

_You bring death wherever you go,_ Glenn murmurs. 

Dimitri nods. Bernadetta shifts and picks up what looks like a handkerchief. She holds it out the window as Dimitri approaches. The mother looks up, her teeth pulling back in warning as Dimitri takes the handkerchief. 

“Quick!” Bernadetta whispers.

She makes a sound that sounds just like another dog’s bark, successfully drawing the mother’s attention upward. Dimitri picks up the still puppy and takes a couple of steps back. The mother looks down, nosing the ground where it was before but doesn’t get up. 

Dimitri looks at the puppy in his hand. It fits easily in his palm, wet even through the handkerchief from its birthing fluids and mother’s ministrations. Dimitri, even as he watches the fingers of his left hand carefully inspecting the unmoving body, is terrified that he will break it. Her.

“Ah,” he hears himself say. 

There is something stuck in the pup’s mouth. It’s thin and easy to remove, probably part of its sac. As soon as he plucks it out, the puppy sputters and makes a soft, high-pitched wail. Dimitri flicks the obstruction onto the ground and leans down to place the puppy next to the mother again. She nearly nips him but is immediately distracted by the reappearance of the squeaking, twitching puppy. She resumes licking it vigorously, attempting to shove it with her nose at the same time towards her first meal. 

Something small but very painful in Dimitri’s chest is rising. 

“Oh,” Bernadetta breathes.

He looks up. She’s beaming at him, bright-eyed, but something in his expression makes her blink again. Her eyes flicker slightly.

“Your Highness,” she starts, and there’s that gentle note again. “Thank you.”

The painful thing is lodged in his throat. Dimitri nods. Steps back. Once. Twice. 

When he comes back to himself, he is sitting back behind the stables. The sun is long risen, and he has no idea how long he has been sitting there. He realises that he is still holding Bernadetta’s handkerchief. The fabric has dried. His hand and it vaguely stink. He stands up, his head feeling heavier than ever. He wants nothing more than to go to sleep. 

Instead, Dimitri shoves the handkerchief in his pocket and goes to class. 

His uncharacteristic lateness draws attention from Dedue and Byleth but is mostly overshadowed by the puppies. The news of them had spread once others had woken up and passed by Bernadetta’s window. She had even come out for once and gone to breakfast, if only to find appropriate care and shelter for the mother and the pups. By afternoon, they’ve been moved near to the greenhouse in a small hutch that had been used for chickens before those had been moved closer to the kitchens. 

“Bernadetta said you helped her last night,” Edelgard says to him in the yard outside their classrooms following afternoon lessons. “You cleaned up a difficult birth.” 

“Oh,” Dimitri says, somewhat awkwardly because he’s suddenly even more tired than before; he feels a little dizzy. “Yes.”

“I didn’t know you’re a dog person,” she says, seeming not to notice the fact that there appear to be two of her, slightly overlapping each other. “I remember your father didn’t let you have pets.” 

He is spared of trying to find an answer to that observation by Dedue, who chooses that moment to herd Dimitri towards the dining hall. A serving of something the colour of clay and flecked with melted cheese and what might be some kind of turnip appears in front of him at the table Dedue deposits him. Dimitri stares at it. He isn’t sure when he had his last meal. His right hand smells like the dirty handkerchief he still has in his pocket. 

“Dedue,” he says as Dedue seats himself across from Dimitri with what might be a fish stew, “do you know a good way to get stains out of lace?”

Dedue stares at him. It’s a complicated expression like he is attempting to rank the priority of multiple responses as they present themselves all at once. 

“Eat your dinner,” he says. 

Dimitri, after a truly impressive exercise of self-control to make himself pick up his spoon, does. It has the unfussy, soft texture he prefers, and there is no tastes that do anything more intense than make him register that it is nourishment. He spends most of the meal observing how Dedue cuts up his chunk of beef. Eating and drinking a cup of the watered dinner wine seems to relieve the dizziness, although his head still feels heavy enough to slip off his shoulders. 

It is only after Dimitri has plodded through half of his dinner that Dedue makes eye contact with more than Dimitri’s utensils to remind him to do more than scoop up food and stare at it.

“I know how to clean lace,” Dedue says because of course he does. “Do you know what kind of stains they are?”

Based on this being them, it is a pertinent follow up question. Dimitri nods, although he has to stop with his head still partially dipped forward to prevent the last bite of dinner coming back up. When he looks up, Dedue has a neutral expression. No judgement. Just mild. 

“Dog saliva mostly,” he says. “Bernadetta lent me her handkerchief to clean one of the puppies.” 

Dedue hums, nodding. He doesn’t ask why Dimitri still has the handkerchief. He probably has a good enough handle as to why. 

_You don’t deserve this,_ his father’s voice admonishes. 

Dimitri looks back down at his dinner. He feels suddenly extremely full and utterly empty at the same time. 

“I’m done,” he declares against the rising urgency to not be around other people. 

Dedue nods, even though he hasn’t finished his dinner either. If Dimitri wasn’t about to either toss the whole table in blind terror at absolutely nothing or run out screaming, he would insist Dedue stay and finish his own dinner. Instead, they clear their places, leaving the dirty dishes with the chef’s attendant, and walk together towards the dorms.

At the second floor stairwell, Dedue shifts, just far enough behind Dimitri that he can herd him up the stairs if needed but not far enough that he leaves Dimitri’s peripheral vision and registers to Dimitri’s senses as a threat. It leaves Dimitri with no choice but to actually climb the stairs and go to his room even though it isn’t even six in the evening. Mass has only just begun, so it is very quiet on the second level as nearly everyone is either at church or avoiding it in the training hall. Usually, Dedue would have acquiesced to Dimitri detouring them to the training hall and beating each other nearly senseless, but today Dimitri doesn’t trust himself not to pass out from the first blow on the stone floor. 

His room’s air is stale when he pushes open the doors, which gives away that it has been shut for well over a day. Dedue follows him in and goes to the window to let in fresh air. Dimitri empties his pockets of his room key, his own handkerchief, and Bernadetta’s handkerchief, the last of which he passes to Dedue when he turns around. Dedue examines it briefly before folding it neatly and putting it in his own pocket. 

“Would you like assistance preparing for bed?” he asks, the very picture of a loyal retainer. 

Usually Dimitri would protest. Right now, the brief improvement to his sense of balance he had gotten from dinner is already wearing off. He feels like he drank far more than just the four sips of the watered wine. 

“A clean sleeping shirt would be appreciated,” he says, sitting down heavily in his desk chair. 

Dedue ends up helping him out of most of his uniform. The water in the wash basin is old but clean, and Dimitri concentrates what little coordination is left to him on wiping himself down so he doesn’t wake up stinking of two days or more sweat. Dedue helps him into the sleeping shirt, not even mentioning the sleeping trousers that Dimitri senses would be a lost cause to try to get his legs to cooperate into at this point. 

It is only after Dimitri is settled on his bed, half sitting with his back against the wall, that Dedue hesitates. Dimitri looks up at him. They were until recently the same height, but Dedue has shot up since coming to the Academy to a point he rivals most of the full knights in bulk and height. It makes many who are already nervous around Dedue even more fearful, which makes Dimitri angry even through the usual numb haze. 

“Dedue,” he says.

A small smile lifts his lips in response. Dedue sits on the side of Dimitri’s bed, turned to half face him and the door. 

The painful thing in Dimitri’s throat stabs.

“I’m here, Your Highness,” Dedue says as Dimitri slides to lie fully on the bed and curl up into a ball. “Please try to sleep.” 

_I’m sorry,_ he wants to say, but Dedue wouldn’t want to hear it. 

He closes his eyes. 

**ii.**

Somehow, between training, classes, bandits, battlefield, assassination plots, murder:

Dimitri becomes associated with the puppies. 

He isn’t sure how it happens. He does spend time in the greenhouse with Dedue and occasionally Byleth or errands take him there, and the mother and her puppies have become beloved of the greenhouse staff. As summer rolls around, Dimitri finds himself carrying the puppy he had tended to about when he visits the greenhouse. It is the sole female of the litter, the males already rambunctious and easy to play amongst themselves and with other students. His puppy, as she is becoming, has a more reserved personality and is not particularly friendly to her littermates or any of the other dogs. She tolerates humans, however, and is full of natural canine curiosity.

“You really do like dogs,” Edelgard says, faintly bemused when she comes by the fishing pond and finds Dimitri sitting on the dock, watching the puppy nose an earthworm he should have used as bait on the pier with her nose. 

Dimitri shrugs. He turns to look at Edelgard with a smile on his face, but something her gaze tempers his attempt at friendliness. It isn’t aggressive or standoffish, but the way she watches the puppy is not friendly either. 

The monster under Dimitri’s skin blinks.

“Did you want something?” he asks.

“Oh,” Edelgard says, looking away from the puppy and to him; her expression clears as one of her normal, cold smiles stretches her lips. “Yes. I was wondering if you had seen Ferdinand today. He wasn’t at morning mass.” 

Neither was Dimitri. He really should attend mass if only to uphold a good image of his house and position, but he hasn’t been feeling it recently at all. 

“I haven’t,” he says, truthfully as he watches out of the corner of his eye the puppy eating the earthworm. “Wouldn’t Hubert know?” 

Edelgard shakes her head, frowning now, although it isn’t at him. “He doesn’t know either. It is not like Ferdinand to miss mass.” 

It really isn’t. Concerned, Dimitri reaches out, picks up the puppy, and stands up. Edelgard watches how he cradles the puppy in his arms with furrowed brows. Not judgemental. Just without understanding. Oddly cold as she has grown to be. 

She doesn’t say anything, though, and they continue back towards the main gate together. The gatekeepers haven’t seen Ferdinand either nor have Byleth and Ashe who they run into on their way back from the marketplace. Ashe beams at the puppy, who accepts his and the professor’s attention like it was her due. 

“You’re spoiling the dog,” Edelgard observes. “It can walk on its own.” 

“I don’t want her stepped on,” Dimitri says even though she does have a point. 

Ferdinand, it turns out, is impossible when he doesn’t want to be found. Edelgard is left frowning and puzzled when they return for afternoon classes after a thorough search and questioning of the monastery and marketplace. Dimitri lingers by the Black Eagles door, setting the puppy down by his feet. 

“I am certain he will turn up,” he tries to reassure her.

“Yes,” she says, not looking or sounding reassured at all. 

Dimitri has to leave her like that as classes are starting. He enters the Blue Lions classroom before realising that the puppy is following at his heel, attracting a great deal of attention from those who are already in the classroom. He looks down at her and her dark brown eyes, looking up at him with wide-eyed innocence. 

He should take her back to the greenhouse. 

A rap at the lectern.

“Now that our house leader has seen fit to join us,” Byleth says with no discernable expression but a nose of amusement, “we can begin.”

Appropriately chastised, Dimitri slides in to sit at his desk, the puppy stepping on his feet to join him.

It is, of all people, Claude who names the puppy. 

“You haven’t named her?” he cries when people have come to expect Dimitri and occasionally Dedue to be followed everywhere possible by the puppy. 

“No,” Dimitri says after exchanging a baffled glance with Dedue. “She isn’t—”

“No!” Claude says, throwing up his hands. “Dimitri, she follows you everywhere! You feed and groom her. She sleeps in our dormitory! She is your dog! You need to name her.”

Dimitri feels himself flushing. He looks down. Most of Golden Deer are listening intently as are the Blue Lions. He doesn’t doubt that everyone else half-listening could hear Claude’s tirade. It is justified, especially since he spelt it out so clearly. 

_Selfish,_ Glenn’s voice hisses.

The puppy just looks up at him. Lanky limbs and too big paws. Mercedes likes to rub her big ears. A part of Dimitri wishes that she was here instead of him. She would know the perfect name for this innocent creature that gazes at him with absolute truth and loyalty. 

Dimitri doesn’t deserve any of this. 

Claude, however, is far more astute than either her or Edelgard are, and he takes mercy on Dimitri with the peculiar finesse of a born politician. Claude thinks of everything well before he does anything. 

“Cethleann,” he declares, and he hits his right fist into his left palm, beaming like he came up with it on the spot. “Because you’re unbeatable with a lance and need luck.” 

“Hey,” Dimitri says, unsure if he should be offended or not. 

“Isn’t that sort of blasphemous?” Marianne asks, which does make everyone look over; she shrinks back, whispering, “Sorry.” 

“No, no,” Claude says, and he looks a little guilty, which means he did come up with the name partially to play a joke on Dimitri. “I mean—”

“I like it,” Dimitri says.

He leans down. Picks up Cethleann. The puppy, so used to him and Dedue picking her up, doesn’t react beyond bumping her head against Dimitri’s shoulder. She looks over it as Dimitri secures his left arm around her haunches. There is warmth as Dimitri’s back as Dedue steps forward to rub her head. Scratch under her chin. 

“Cethleann,” he says. 

He smiles at Claude, who watches him, Cethleann, and Dedue with his friendly smile and dissecting eyes. Dimitri is no natural politician. He is not a gentle person. He isn’t, he suspects, even a person. 

He lost that right a long time ago.

“Thank you,” he says, meaning it.

Claude’s smile doesn’t falter. 

“You’re welcome.” 

His eyes flicker. He knows he’s miscalculated but not exactly how. If it is good. If it is bad. 

Out of the corner of his right eye, Dimitri can see Edelgard watching from the doors of the Black Eagles classroom. Her expression is closed. Inscrutable. 

Cethleann, with Dedue’s hand on her head and his wrist on Dimitri’s shoulder, barks. 

Dimitri smiles. 

Years later, Dimitri understands this is when things began to go south.


	2. Chapter 2

**iii.**

Cethleann isn’t eating. 

No matter what Dimitri attempts to feed her, no matter how enticing he attempts to make pigeon or trout or even earthworms, which used to be her favourite, she ignores it. She lies on his lap and won’t let him out of her sight. She keeps lifting her head at every little sound, sniffing the air in hopes that the wind or the mouse or whatever it is that Dimitri himself cannot hear will be Dedue. 

Dedue isn’t here. He saved Dimitri’s life. His head is cleaved from his shoulders. 

Dimitri wants to scream, but his voice is gone. His heart is empty. 

If he had not found Cethleann, beaten and left for dead in a pile of bodies and waste just beyond Fhirdiad’s walls, Dimitri would have become a beast. As it was, he dragged her out from that cursed place, shoving something akin to nourishment down his throat so he could cast Heal as many times as he dared. The lessons in Faith Byleth dragged him through: Dimitri had never been more grateful for the professor when Cethleann’s body convulsed. Her eyes opened. He wept uncontrollably as she, with her tail still crushed and right hind leg broken, lifted her head and licked his ruined face. 

Now, as they wander half in madness, half in stubborn determination to not let the other die, Dimitri clutches her like she is a puppy again and carries her as he walks. He healed her completely, but he can’t stand to think she could be lost again. She feels weightless, her bones and flesh inconsequential. He would carry her even if she was the weight of a carthorse, if only because he will not leave her. 

She is all he has left. 

His spear is heavy on his back. His headache has disappeared in favour for mottled colours and endless spinning. He hasn’t been able to make himself eat either, although he senses he must be eating or they would both be long dead. He isn’t sure how they are both still alive. He realises, even as he holds entire debates with his father and Glenn as Cethleann dozes on his lap, that he is out of his mind. If it wasn’t for Cethleann, he isn’t sure if he would know who he is. 

He is Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Heir to the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, and Cethleann is the only being alive on this accursed earth who has not betrayed him. Who has not died for him.

When they do sleep, they wake howling for Dedue. Dimitri cries into her matted hair, unsure if the noises he hears come from him or her. 

_Pathetic,_ his father’s voice sighs. 

_I’m sorry,_ he thinks or says or screams or snarls. _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_

He isn’t human anymore. 

Maybe he never was. 

Time begins to break apart. 

Cethleann kills her first human in the sunset of a mild spring day. It is Dimitri’s fault. He has just taken a sword to his right side, careless in his pursuit of the Imperial soldier he was compelled to strangle. The swordsman does not see Cethleann, has no change of escaping her mad dive for his neck. Dimitri crushes the throat of the soldier beneath him without a thought.

“Cethleann!”

She rips out the swordsman’s jugular. Blood sprays everywhere. Her kind, dark brown eyes are blown black, full of—

The camp is in chaos, on fire, full of—

Dimitri doesn’t remember. Can’t. All he knows is that when he came back to himself, both he and Cethleann were matted in gore as they stagger next to each other. Exhausted but uninjured. The thicket the patrol had been camped in is burning high. A beacon. 

A warning. 

There are no humans here. 

Only beasts. 

At some point: 

Dimitri realises Cethleann has grown larger. 

He isn’t sure how this is possible. She is definitely the size of some of the working dogs that he grew up with in Faerghus, which are much larger than any of the breeds that were at the monastery. She is larger than any Imperial breed he can think of, and she towers over the small village mutts they occasionally encounter when Dimitri has enough sanity to show his face among humans to purchase new clothes.

He has grown, too. Very annoyingly because he keeps needing to steal larger armour and mail. 

Eventually, his puzzlement over Cethleann’s increasing size gets the better of him, and he struggles her into a river for a bath. She is the length of his entire torso and upper thighs, and he guesses she weighs about as much as half of him. He stares at her, even after Cethleann has long dried off. Her fur, clean for the first time in ages, is thick and tan-coloured, speckled at points with black hairs. She looks nothing like her Garreg Mach born and bred mother and brethren. 

“Is this my fault?” he asks as he watches her nose in the mud for earthworms.

_Everything is your fault,_ Glenn points out. 

“I know,” he says, using a wad of soap he found molding at the bottom of his pack to scrub at his hair, “but I don’t think I could make her grow.” 

_Of course not, you arrogant child,_ his father snarls. _You shouldn’t have dragged her into your mess._

“I couldn’t leave her to die,” Dimitri snarls back before dunking his head into the river. 

_She’s a murderer thanks to you,_ his stepmother murmurs.

“I know,” Dimitri says, resurfacing and gingerly beginning to soap over his bad eye. “I’m sorry.” 

_Stupid boy,_ his father growls.

Dimitri is stupid. He is arrogant. No amount of apology or appeasement will change the truth of those words. 

He also now understands that he has condemned Cethleann. She is loyal to him to the point she will kill alongside him. The rumours that circulate about his attacks on Imperial patrols and outposts now include mention of a wild wolf. Some mistake her for multiple wolves. Some mistake him for a wolf as well. They have become feral, whatever semblance to domestication flushed from their beings in favour of raw power and destruction. 

“I wonder what Claude would think,” he says one autumn day as he carries Cethleann up a rocky incline. “Do you remember him, Cethie? He named you.”

She licks his chin. Dimitri smiles. He kisses the crown of her head. Looks up at the distant watchtower. The Imperial banner flapping in the western breeze. They are approaching from the east. The wind is strong. No one will hear them coming. 

“What about Mercedes?” he asks, and he feels himself grinning when she looks at him again, ears drawn forward. “Of course you remember her. You liked how she used to pet you. She is a good woman. Good thing she can’t see us now…” 

_She would be disgusted with what you’ve both become,_ Glenn points out.

“Shut up,” Dimitri growls, tightening his hold on Cethleann. 

_Let us rest,_ his father begs.

“I’m trying!” Dimitri says, loud enough that Cethleann looks up at him in alarm.

He clamps his jaw shut, even as the ghosts laugh at him. Cethleann licks his chin. 

Dimitri swallows. Stares at the banner. 

He climbs. 

**iv.**

Five years pass. 

During the fifth year, the summer brings the plague. It doesn’t just affect humans. Livestock and domestic animals die in droves. Dimitri discovers what is happening because rats and birds start turning up dead all over the place. 

Consequently, Dimitri has a maudlin spell. He doesn’t drink much as a rule, but there isn’t any clean water as nearly every viable water source is affected. It is either consume alcohol, boil all viable water, or die. Dimitri prioritises water for Cethleann’s health as she cannot have wine or beer and especially not spirits. Dimitri robs Imperial patrols and scores of weakened bandits of every drop of liquid they carry, reboiling what water he does find. He is forced to consume more alcohol than he has ever had in his life. 

He hates being drunk. It makes him ineffective and frequently weepy. The ghosts are louder than ever, and he cannot travel half as far as he usually can. He spends most of the days nauseous and dizzy, and Cethleann takes to walking in front of him to stop him from weaving into trees or off cliffs. He trips on her often and then has to stop altogether because he doesn’t remember which way he needed to go. 

He spends most of the summer moving as northward as he dares, traveling at night to hide from everything from sweating Imperial patrols to panicked refugees coughing up their lungs. It is the least violent period in his life since everything went wrong, if only because Dimitri spends the majority of it maudlin and barely motivated to do more than keep Cethleann and himself alive. 

This is how he ends up back near the ruins of Garreg Mach as winter rolls in. The plague is tapering off with the colder weather. The thin population around the area and the deep gorge that keeps most of the Imperial patrols away means that the water is free of the plague. The religious would likely claim this the work of the Goddess, but Dimitri knows it is only logical. The plague cannot spread where there aren’t victims to claim. 

“Do you remember this place?” Dimitri asks Cethleann as he carries her up a rain-slick road of broken cobblestones and deep puddles. “You were born here.” 

He doesn’t say that she grew up here. Clearly, with how large she is, most of her growth occurred after things fell apart. They camp in a battered shrine that was once dedicated to Saint Macuil according to the base of the smashed statue. He watches her sniff around in the rubble and dirt as he gnaws on a piece of some unidentified jerky. 

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” he says as she snorts on a carving striped of its precious gems and gold paints. “Not like we have a right to judge. I mean—”

He waves the jerky to indicate both himself and her. She looks up, eyes tracking the jerky with interest. Dimitri tosses it to her, smiling slightly as she catches it with a jerk of her head and snap of teeth. 

“I would wager,” he says later the next afternoon as the broken walls and towers of the monastery come into stark relief, “we could winter here. There used to be good hunting in the area. It’s a good strategic point, too, so we would hear if traitors are coming.” 

She looks around at the word _traitor_ before cocking her head at him as if reprimanding him for the false alarm. Dimitri pats her head in apology. His spear and sword are heavy across his back and left side. 

“We’ll kill them all,” he tells her, brushing his knee against her substantial flank. “I promise.” 

Cethleann looks up at him.

She barks.

Through a garden of corpses: 

Byleth appears. 

It is a terrible shock. Dimitri hears the approaching footsteps, looking up only when the figure that turns out to be the professor comes into the moonlight. Byleth doesn’t look to have aged a day, still garbed in the Academy teaching uniform. Dimitri stares. It is impossible to do anything more. 

Cethleann stands up from her position at his feet and growls. 

This alerts Dimitri that Byleth is not, in fact, simply a ghost. Cethleann cannot see the dead who haunt Dimitri’s footsteps, a reminder even on his bad days that while she shares his body count, he hasn’t dragged her so deep into his madness. Dimitri stares up at the professor, who had started to reach out. Once the initial disbelief tapers off, Dimiti reaches up. Out. He settles his hand on Cethleann’s shoulders. She snarls but doesn’t bite as Byleth continues to reach towards Dimitri. 

“Cethie,” he hears himself say, a voice that hasn’t spoken human words in an age, “no.” 

He pushes himself up. Half with his spear. Half on Cethleann. The professor stares up at him. Hand still outstretched. Eyes shining in the moonlight. 

Dimitri stares at the hand. Sword calluses. Clean nails. 

_Where did you come from?_ Dimitri wonders.

“I’m glad you still have her,” Byleth says, soft and earnest. 

_Did you see our kills?_ Dimitri wants to ask because this spectre is real— 

“She has done a good job protecting you,” the professor continues. 

“You are real,” Dimitri says, faintly hysterical. 

“I am,” is the response, accompanied by a slightly furrowed brow, which is a huge expression by the professor’s standards; Byleth starts to step forward, still reaching. “Dimitri—”

He slaps Byleth’s hand away. The professor blinks. Not hurt. Honestly surprised. 

Years ago, Dimitri had been unnerved by Byleth’s stoicism. Emptiness. 

Now, he understands it is he who is empty. 

“The Dimitri you are addressing doesn’t exist,” he says because it is the truth; he must speak against the rising thing in his stomach and chest; he fears he may vomit. “You should leave this cursed place.” 

Byleth’s brows furrow deeper. It makes Dimitri want to scream. Cethleann growls. Dimitri feels himself settle his hand on her head. Not a calming gesture. His hands are only good for killing. 

“I’ve been away long enough, it seems,” Byleth observes.

Dimitri is promptly utterly hysterical.

He is saved, however, from having to face this error in his emotional regulation by the appearance of bandits. 

He is not saved, however, from the reappearance of Gilbert of all people and the surviving Blue Lions. He is not saved from their surprise and alarm at his appearance and brutality. He is well-aware what he looks like. What he probably sounds and smells like. 

He is not able to save Cethleann’s reputation either. They all have fully working eyes. They watch her tackle and maul a thief who came at Dimitri’s blind right, and they see that he does not discourage her. Annette and Sylvain glance at Cethleann nervously after the fight is over as they all gather around to reunite. Felix scowls at both her and Dimitri openly. 

“It figures,” he says when Cethleann shows her teeth. 

“Cethie,” Dimitri hears himself say, drawing her attention. 

He picks her up. Not to protect them but to shield her from their inspection. Mercedes’ lips twitch slightly, likely finding the image nostalgic of their academy days. He doesn’t care. They apparently want him here despite the fact he is very obviously insane. If he holds onto Cethleann, they can’t take her away. 

“Your Highness,” Gilbert starts, and Dimitri hates that he finds himself turning in response to the title, “where is Dedue?”

It is lucky that he is holding Cethleann. Her ears slide down. She always, always recognises Dedue’s name. She knows. Knows better than anyone. 

_You are a monster,_ Glenn murmurs. 

“He gave his life so we could escape,” Dimitri says. 

They all exchange glances. Crestfallen. Dimitri doesn’t want to see this. He doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t—

_This is your fault,_ his father points out.

“We need to plan our next steps,” Gilbert is saying. 

Dimitri can’t deal with this. 

Not now. 

Not ever. 

_Let us rest,_ the ghosts moan.

“I will cleave Edelgard’s head,” he snarls; he isn’t sure who he is talking to; he wants the entire night to have not happened; he wants everyone to go away. “As for how we get there, let the professor decide.” 

He clutches Cethleann close and walks away.


	3. Chapter 3

**v.**

Cethleann is eating earthworms by the fishing pond in the monastery. 

Dimitri is hard-pressed to figure how exactly they got here. He supposes that he must have gone into a fugue state of some sort and been convinced or somehow bodily manipulated to come with Byleth, Gustave, and the rest of Blue Lion as they set up a base of operations. He isn’t even sure what day it is. He has to look up at the sky to ascertain that it is, in fact, daytime. 

“Cethie,” he starts, feeling suddenly very nervous sitting on the pier, “let’s… go.” 

She wanders after him as he makes his way onto solid land. Up the stairs. The dining hall smells strongly of food. It is overwhelming, so he turns and takes the long way around to head towards—

He finds himself in front of the ruined church altar. Once more at a loss for how he got there. Cethleann is using her nose to move a piece of rubble around. Dimitri stares at her progress, confused and vaguely terrified. 

Is it the same day?

Is it the same month?

What has he been doing? 

How did he get here?

“Dimitri?” 

Byleth. He turns slightly. Not because he doesn’t want to talk to Byleth but he’s suddenly afraid if he looks aways from Cethleann, he will lose himself again. 

“Professor,” he says, and it makes Byleth blink, which indicates this has not been his usual reaction. “What is it?” 

Byleth eyes him before holding out a parchment packet. It has lumps in it. 

“Mercedes and Ashe made biscuits,” the professor says, expression and voice completely neutral.

Dimitri has a panicked moment of completely unprompted terror. He clamps down on it. From the way Byleth’s eyes flicker, he didn’t manage to keep it from showing on his face. 

“Thank you,” he says, taking the packet more to get out of the awkwardness of the situation than actual understanding of what is occurring. 

He opens the packet. The biscuits are large, smell faintly savoury, and shaped comically like bones. He stares for a long moment. Looks back up. 

Byleth’s lips are slightly quirked. Dimitri feels exposed. He wonders if the professor became more expressive in the past five years. He wonders if he just never noticed. Both are equally viable possibilities. 

_You don’t deserve this,_ his father growls. 

“They’re for Cethie,” the professor says. “Mercedes decided trying to make worm-shaped biscuits would be too fragile.” 

This is, unfortunately, too normal of a conversation to comprehend. Dimitri shifts his right foot. Cethleann abandons her chewing of the rubble to come to his side. She raises her nose, sniffing with interest at the packet. 

Dimitri extracts one of the biscuits. Turns in his hand. It feels quite tough but not nearly as hard as a ration biscuit. He guesses from the brownish flecks that it does contain meat of some sort. He wasn’t aware they had meat to spare. 

_You are a horrible leader,_ his stepmother spits. 

He puts one of the bone knobs in his mouth. Bites. It comes off easily with a bit of force. Chews. It’s dry, and he cannot taste it anymore than anything else. In his experience, that probably means it isn’t poisoned. He offers the rest to Cethleann, who gobbles it up with a couple of brief crunches. Dimitri chews his mouthful of biscuit a little more, using his saliva to moisten it to swallow easily. It contains oats. 

“Huh.”

He looks away from Cethleann. Byleth and, very awkwardly, Gilbert are both staring at him. He isn’t sure when Gilbert appeared. It is very possible that the old knight was there all along. He looks rather upset.

“Do you like it?” Byleth asks, void of emotion and judgement. 

Dimitri stares at them. He isn’t sure what to say. He concentrates on keeping his focus on the professor. Cethleann steps towards him. Sniffing eagerly at the parchment packet. He resists the urge to pick her up and run away. 

“Cethie,” he says, completely unable to navigate whatever is happening here, “let’s… go.” 

He comes back to himself at one of the ruined walls overlooking one of the sharp cliffs to the west. Cethleann is lying across his lap. The sky is patched with clouds. When he looks up, he can clearly see the quarter moon and stars. 

“Cethie…” he says, running his hands over her right foreleg. 

He doesn’t know how long he sits there. He watches the moon slowly cresting across the sky. For years, he used it and the stars to take him and Cethleann across Fódlan. He doesn’t remember a good amount and none of it reliably, but he had felt a sense of direction, even if he hadn’t understood it. Cethleann never questioned. She understood. She had his back. 

But then Byleth reappeared. Gilbert and the Blue Lions reunited. They don’t say it to his face, not even Felix, but they want their king. They question the people he knows are traitors. Who deserve death. Their soft eyes and beating hearts: 

_Murderer,_ the ghosts whisper. _Murderer_

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, fingers curled in Cethleann’s fur. “I’m so sorry.”

Not long after that, Dimitri becomes aware that he and Cethleann are being watched. 

It is mostly Gilbert and Byleth. Other Blue Lions occasionally replace them, shadowing just out of both Dimitri and Cethleann’s threat radius. Dimitri becomes aware of Annette early one morning as he digs around for earthworms with Cethleann. She never fishes, so her presence stands out like a sore thumb. Mercedes appears just in his vision more and more when he is in the church. She prays, unobtrusive but clearly watching him with her hearing. 

He wonders why they’re watching him. Do they think he’ll snap and kill them all? To be fair, sometimes Dimitri does worry about this himself. He is irredeemable. Reprehensible. The list of heinous acts he hasn’t committed is extremely short. 

“Dimitri.” 

He blinks. Looks up from his mindless contemplation of the size of Cethleann’s paws. Byleth is there along with—

Dimitri is on his feet. Reaching out. Grabbing the dog, which looks like a quarter-sized version of Cethleann, before he registers how hard his heart is hammering. The dog smells strongly of onions for some reason. Cethleann is already sniffing its behind as Dimitri lifts it. A male. It’s shivering, obviously very frightened. It is very thin. 

“Ashe found him eating supplies in the kitchen,” Byleth says as Dimitri adjusts his hold to cradle the dog. 

That explains the onions. Cethleann stares at the dog. A little puzzled. Dimitri clutches him. Stares from him to Byleth and back to the dog. There were three males from Cethleann’s litter. He didn’t expect any of them to still be alive. 

He didn’t expect anyone he sees currently on a daily basis to be alive. 

“He’s hungry,” Dimitri hears himself say. “Can we feed him?” 

It is a good question. Resources are stretched very thin. Dimitri is aware that his and Cethleann’s hunting excursions have been most of their supply of meat since people loyal to the concept of him started filtering into Garreg Mach. Dimitri himself is currently off meat altogether, unable to stomach anything that has discernable texture. He isn’t sure what he’s been eating, but he has made an effort to stop eating the same meals as Cethleann because he is certain that bothers even Byleth. 

The professor frowns slightly. “We will find something.” 

They end up breaking open several bones of the bear that Dimitri had brought back two nights ago for marrow. The kitchen staff leave him, Byleth, and Ashe a wide berth as Dimitri slams the blunt end of the cleaver down, cracking open a femur on the cutting block. Cethleann stands next to him, sniffing intensely as Dimitri plows through the bear and then a cow from earlier in the week. He may be unable to cook due to his complete lack of taste, but he has found his way into the kitchen despite himself. 

“I should have asked you to do this earlier,” Byleth says as Ingrid brings him the remnants of some other animal to work on. “You are far more efficient than anyone else on staff.” 

Dimitri, standing with the cleaver in hand, has no idea how to respond to that. He feels faintly like he has somehow been played. It is only when, as he watches Mercedes feed the small, quivering dog boiled marrow, Dimitri realises: 

This is the most human he has been since Dedue freed him from that accursed cell. 

**vi.**

Dimitri knows better than anyone that he is unfit for command. 

He doesn't say this. Even if he did, no one would listen. He doesn’t say this even as everyone debates around him about how to meet up with Rodrique, if they should go to Fhirdiad or Enbarr, if they should feed the horses or the cattle from one day to the next. Dimitri stands in these meetings that always occur around him and concentrates very hard on not screaming:

“Just tell me who to kill and go away!” 

He senses that he might have said this aloud at one point. But they’re still including him in these conversations, and they keep glancing at him, looking for someone who isn’t there. Who never was there. Only Dedue ever understood. 

Dimitri doesn’t know why he is thinking so much of Dedue now. He fears, as Byleth, Felix, and Gilbert discuss the route to Ailell, that he will shut his eyes and see his ghost among the others. That, as soon as his guard is down, Dedue’s voice will join the chorus. It’s too much. He picks up Cethleann, walks out of the church, and screams into her fur. 

They claw their way towards Enbarr. Rodrigue brings supplies and reinforcements but sustains great losses. He comes looking for a king only to find only a feral beast. Specifically, he finds Dimitri soaked in the gore of a pegasus rider and preceded by Cethleann who has blood all over her muzzle and paws. Dimitri has presence of mind to be ashamed. This is a man who is utterly respectable. He has always been unquestionably loyal. To Dimitri’s father. To Faerghus as it should be. 

He has given everything. First Glenn. Then Felix. Now himself.

Dimitri watches the flash of horror Rodrigue hastily covers with a warm, sincere greeting with a faint but painful sense of loss. 

“Is this Cethleann?” Rodrigue asks as they head back towards Garreg Mach in the early morning light to plan next steps. 

Dimitri is carrying her because it makes concentrating on acting marginally human easier. Rodrigue had brought an extra horse, a brilliant black stallion clearly intended for Dimitri to ride. Byleth has mounted it and trots a respectable full horse length behind them. Dimitri does not ride any longer. Horses tend to become nervous in his and Cethleann’s presence. They smell too much like death. 

“Yes,” Dimitri says, a croak. 

Rodrigue smiles. A carefully harmless expression. Dimitri struggles to repress the urge to reach for his spear, the battle madness still too near. 

“I am glad you have her,” Rodrigue says. “I always told your father you should have a proper war dog.” 

Dimitri’s step falters. He adjusts his hold on Cethleann, who wakes up at the stumble. Rodrique is starting to halt his horse. Dimitri takes a hasty step forward to prevent this. 

“Explain.”

It’s hot and harsh. Rodrigue’s eyebrows rise. They continue their progress, staring at each other. 

“Your father was against you having pets,” Rodrigue says, head tilted down to watch Dimitri curiously. “I didn’t understand why. You are the House Blaiddyd, named for wolf lords in old tales. It is worthwhile to evoke the power of your name. How did you come by her? She looks like creatures carved in the great northern standing stones.” 

Dimitri opens his mouth. Shuts it. He looks down at Cethleann. At her closed eyes. He can feel her deep, even breaths as she dozes in his arms. 

He thinks of the first time he held her. How she fit into the palm of his hand. His finger flicking a bit of birthing waste that had choked her breath. 

He thinks about how he cast Heal upon her flesh. Put her intestines back inside her belly. Knit her muscles and reconnect tendons and give her tail a chance to wag again. He thinks, for the first time in five years, of how it was not the Goddess to whom he prayed. Not quite.

He thinks of her tongue against his chin as he wailed. 

He brought her back to life with only one thought. 

“I believe,” Dimitri says, utterly calm, “the God of War gave her to me.” 

“The God of War,” Rodrigue echoes.

Dimitri looks up. Rodrigue stares at Cethleann. At Dimitri’s cradling hold. At the blood on her muzzle and his hands. 

The look in his eyes—

“Yes,” Rodrigue says.

There is hope.

Rodrigue laughs, full of joy. 

These are the words that chase themselves around in Dimitri’s head until they reach Garreg Mach. They are so consuming that the ghosts aren’t able to get a word in edgewise. Dimitri feels as if he is watching as a spectator as he sits through the councils as they discuss how best to arrange their troops. How many pegasus riders they need. If they should send in cavalry even with the obstacles. If they should use Seteth and his wyvern as a distraction. 

Cethleann lets Rodrigue pet her even when he doesn’t first offer food. Dimitri watches this and how Rodrigue kneels at both of their feet. 

“My lord,” he says, as all the eyes and ghosts look on, “what say you?”

It is not a mockery. Dimitri doesn’t entirely understand what has happened, but he feels like a switch has been flipped. He feels like he is on a precipice, unsure how he got there but certain he will need to jump. He looks down at Rodrigue, at his bowed head and the regal length of his exposed neck. 

Something strange and new blinks awake beneath his flesh. 

“We will rout the traitors,” he says, and he can see the understanding in Rodrigue’s eyes; he knows that Dimitri will murder them all; against his feet, Cethleann shifts. “Whatever else, ask the professor.”

It is later, as he buffs out a deep scratch in his spear, that Byleth comes to him with a pot of chamomile tea and two servings of roasted fish from dinner. The tea must have come from the supplies that Rodrigue brought. He makes no movement to accept the dinner or a cup, but Byleth sets it all on the table he’s working on without asking. 

“If you’re going to be effective, you need this,” the professor says, pulling over a chair and sitting down. 

Dimitri realises, extremely belatedly, that Byleth intends to join him for dinner. He stares for a long moment. Looks down at Cethleann, who is sniffing noisily at the plate closest to Dimitri. He looks up to find Byleth giving him a look that can only be described as reproving. He feels chastised without knowing why. 

Carefully, he sets his oilcloth down. Watches his hand extend to the teacup. Closes his fingers around it. Byleth cuts a piece of fish. Watches the progress of the cup to Dimitri’s mouth. 

He registers heat and nothing else. Swallows. 

“Do you remember,” Byleth says as Dimitri sets the cup down, “the White Heron Cup?” 

Dimitri sinks his fingertips into the flesh of his serving of fish. He pulls a chunk from the bone. It is a meaty serving. A choice cut. He watches his hand rising. Forces his mouth open to take the meat. It has too much texture. He forces himself to swallow. Drops his hand for Cethleann to lick the residue from his fingers. 

Dedue and Glenn both loved this kind of fish.

“Yes,” he says, and it’s hoarse because he’s trying not to throw up. “Why?”

Byleth is looking at the space in the fish that Dimitri had eaten. Frowning. When the professor looks up again, the expression—

“I was up there,” Byleth says, and Dimitri suddenly, horribly _knows_. “Trying to get some space from the party, and I… I heard what you said. With Dedue.” 

Dimitri—

He—

Dedue—

His head hurts. He is shaking. Where is Cethleann? She—

“Sorry,” Byleth’s voice filters in, and he can feel Cethleann, her fur in his hands, her nose and tongue bumping his chin, his mouth, his cheek, “I should have… led into that better…”

What?

Dimitri pries his eyelids open. Lifts his head. He is on the ground. He looks up. Around. Finds Byleth crouched next to him. Cethleann on his chest. From the disgusting feeling to his mouth, he suspects he might have thrown up. 

“Professor,” he hears himself say, and it sounds like a wounded animal using his voice, “you knew?”

Byleth swallows visibly. Nods. He can see how deeply the professor breathes in. 

“I know what he means to you,” Byleth says, and it is the most passionate that he has ever heard that even, almost emotionless voice. “What you meant to him. I should have said something earlier, but there is never enough time. He would want you to be king. No matter what you think of yourself. He would trust you to carry your wishes for peace forward.

“I will give my all to take us toward your victory.,” the professor implores, standing up slowly, telegraphing every motion. “I believe in you, too.”

Dimitri stares. Watches Byleth rise. Step. Turn. 

He watches at Byleth’s back. The progress towards the door. His mouth is open. His voice is gone. Fingers twisted in Cethleann’s fur. 

Outside, the moon shines.

**vii.**

There are thousands dying wishes Dimitri has heard over the years. 

He learned early on that he did not have the power to grant these wishes. He learned this lesson sitting at his father’s feet, listening to public and court audiences. His father, who was tall and strong and everything Dimitri in those faded childhood days aspired to be, would listen to each petitioner, to their stories of dying wishes of sons and daughters and parents and relatives, and shake his head. 

“I may offer you assistance,” Lambert would say, his hand resting on Dimitri’s head, “and may the dearly departed be at peace in the Goddess’s embrace.”

It was a standard line. The Holy Kingdom of Faerghus was just that: a kingdom that had holy land. The House of Blaiddyd did not and had never claimed the divine right as the rulers of the Empire did. Dimitri knew that he, just like his father and everyone else, was mortal. Mortals die. It is neither a curse nor a blessing. 

In the harsh northern winters and weak summers, Dimitri learned to swing a sword before he could read. He mastered his lance before he could sing hymns. He knew, just from listening to the court gossip about Crests, the ever present threat of famine, and the disowned Miklan, it was not for his health. It was for the survival of the kingdom. If he was to rule, Dimitri would have to survive long enough to climb over the bodies of challengers to the throne. 

These are the memories that bubble to the surface as Claude speaks of the ship. Of sailing. It isn’t running away. It is a choice. The Alliance is not strong enough to take on the Empire with its raw power, and it is not strong enough to take on Faerghus with its unforgiving terrain. Claude will not allow anymore of his loved ones die. 

“Claude.” 

He blinks. Turns his attention from Byleth, who holds Failnaught as if it may burst into sacrilegious flames at being cast away so unceremoniously. Dimitri sets Cethleann down on the ground. She stares at Claude, who watches her with a bow master's eye. Dimitri wonders if his drawing arm, which Ashe shot when they last saw each other, will ever fully heal. 

“Why ‘Cethleann’?” he asks, which makes Cethleann look to him, head cocked curiously.

Claude’s lips twitch. Behind him, Hilda’s lips are set in a flat line. They are wasting valuable time. The ghosts are hissing in Dimitri’s ears. But he needs to know. 

“I wasn’t lying,” he says as Hilda reaches out to take his good elbow. “Has she brought you luck, old friend?” 

Dimitri feels his lips part. Stretch. Claude’s expression doesn’t change, but Hilda’s eyes are large. Caution turning disturbed. There is a howling. The wind. The ghosts. 

“Go,” he says as Hilda’s knuckles turn white. “Leave this cursed place.” 

Claude’s grin splits open. He laughs as Hilda hauls him away.

The faithful pray to the Goddess for all manners of things. For life. For births. For justice. For death. They sing their hopes and dreams and damnations to her, opening their hearts in hope of mercy. 

Dimitri stopped praying to the Goddess five years ago. 

On the Bridge:

“Your Highness!”

Cethleann steps on Dimitri’s foot. Makes him turn. His heart is stopped. His vision is tunneled. That voice—

Cethleann is wailing. Not a howl or a bark or a battlecry, but a sound that this earthly realm has not known since the dragon descended and the gorge cracked open Garreg Mach. Dimitri watches Cethleann jump. Not a lunge. Not a leap. Jumping—

“Cethleann!”

He prayed to the Duscur God of War for life.

Dedue, covered in scars and blue and gold garb, catches Cethleann. He holds her like a child as she whimpers and wails, attempting to lick his face, hair, ears. He walks forward, even and sure. Dimitri stands, frozen, unable to move.

“Dedue?” 

His voice is far away as Dedue moves closer until Dimitri can pick out the ridges of every scar on his cheeks, brow, lips. Cethleann continues her warbling. Around them, the rest of the forces of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus stop and stare.

Dimitri reaches out.

Dedue’s lips are soft. Teeth smooth and white. Jaw solid. The scars have ridges and texture beneath Dimitri’s fingertips. 

“Your Highness,” Dedue says.

It is not in Dimitri’s ears. Dedue’s lips move and sound escapes directly in front of him. Dimitri cups behind Dedue’s head. The base of his skull. The rough scratch of freshly cropped hair against his palm. 

Between them, Cethleann wails.

“You are real,” Dimitri breathes.

Dedue leans forward. Presses their foreheads together. 

“Finally,” Dedue breathes, and Dimitri would slaughter the world, just to live this moment: 

“I found you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**viii.**

Dedue is taken aback by the state of Garreg Mach. He stands for a long time at the main gate, staring up at the broken spires. At the damaged Goddess Tower. Crossing through the thin marketplace, his gaze breaks from his path, glancing over the limited offerings. The short list of available battalions and mercenaries. The few thin, wilder cats and dogs that skulk about the road.

“I had known it was damaged,” he says to Byleth and Sylvain who are both attempting to lockpick Dedue’s old dormitory room. “I didn’t know it was abandoned.”

“It was abandoned for five years,” Byleth says. 

“Professor said His Highness was living here,” Sylvain says, glancing over at where Dimitri stands against the wall. 

Dedue turns. He’d told Dimitri, who had taken a blow to the head during the battle, to rest, but Dimitri had argued that he and Cethleann wanted to make sure Dedue settled in properly. He senses that he should be resting. He pets Cethleann’s head as she helps prop him upright along the wall. He feels more tired than usual. 

“I was intending to winter here,” Dimitri says, somewhat belatedly. 

“Professor said he was creating a garden of corpses,” Sylvain elaborates, very unhelpfully. 

Dimitri is saved from whatever reaction Dedue would have had by Byleth getting the door open. Dedue’s old room is so well-preserved there are petrified ginger roots still on the desk. His blankets are still neatly folded with his pillow atop. A teapot and two cups sit on the window ledge. The only element that truly denotes the passage of time is the thick layer of dust. 

A breath.

“Wow,” Sylvain whispers. 

A snapping.

Dimitri is grabbing Dedue’s hand. Wrist. He is in the hall. Stepping away. Back. Dedue stumbles along with him, eyebrows raised in surprise. Cethleann follows at their heels. 

_He’s dead,_ Glenn laughs.

“No,” Dimitri says, and he moves faster, clutching Dedue’s hand tighter, “you’re not dead.”

“I am alive,” Dedue agrees, and he draws close to Dimitri’s shoulder as they move. “Where are we going?” 

Good question. Dimitri stops. Dedue bumps into his shoulder. Cethleann trods on his toes as if they are running from the plague again. Dimitri wavers. Blinks hard. He doesn’t let go of Dedue’s hand. 

A beat. 

Dimitri is aware that Byleth and Sylvain are probably right behind them. Watching them. Assessing. Thinking. Considering.

_You don’t deserve this,_ his stepmother snaps.

“I know,” he says. 

“What do you know?” Dedue asks. 

Dimitri opens his mouth, head already partially turned towards Dedue before he realises his mistake. He feels his joints lock up. He stares at the dormitory courtyard. Cannot move. Cannot speak. 

There is a footstep. 

“Dimitri—”

“Professor,” Dedue says, and he speaks right into Dimitri’s hair, “did His Highness get hit in the head?”

“Yes,” Byleth sighs.

“Your Highness,” Dedue says and his hands are on Dimitri’s shoulders, secure weights, “you have a head wound. You should have had this treated.” 

“What?” Dimitri says, suddenly extremely irate. 

Looking back on it later, that did not help his case at all. Dedue, Byleth, and Sylvain, who looks like he would prefer to be doing something far less dangerous, herd him to the infirmary where Manuela takes one look at Dimitri and orders him to a bed. Normally, he would fight this because he will heal on his own, but Dedue is holding Cethleann, who looks incredibly content. Dimitri aches. He doesn’t know why. 

“Drink this,” Manuela says, holding out a cup of tea once Dimitri finally sits on the side of the infirmary cot. 

It isn’t just tea. Dimitri is not stupid. He drinks it anyways because Dedue and Byleth look ready to hold him down and make Sylvain feed it to him if necessary. It registers as lukewarm and bitterly herbal. He wonders with increasing anxiety if perhaps this is an extended hallucination. Those have happened before, and they are terrible. He swallows the last of the liquid. Manuela plucks the cup from his hand and replaces it with an uncorked vial of Concoction. 

Supplies are so limited. 

“No,” Dimitri says, trying to pass it back; she dodges his hand. “I don’t need—”

“Considering,” Manuela says, her voice rising as she dodges his hand again, “you are actually in my office, some part of you is aware you need to be here. Drink it yourself or one of us will make you, _Your Highness._”

He does. He feels like, once again, he has been played. Manuela takes the vial. Behind her, Dedue, Cethleann, Byleth, and Sylvain still block the door. The infirmary windows are only a floor from the ground. He can’t jump out, however, without leaving Cethleann. A part of Dimitri, which has held onto some semblance of reason, points out that Dedue would not fit out the window. It is too narrow. 

Whatever was in the herbal mix that Manuela started with seems to kick in fairly quickly. Dimitri sits through several casts of white magic, feeling not much aside from mild nausea. Sylvain excuses himself after the second spell, but both Dedue and Byleth make themselves comfortable in Manuela’s reception chairs. Cethleann wanders over to him, sniffing with interest at the veil of white magic as it falls and dissipates. Dimitri faintly feels the wound on his head and one in his left thigh close up.

“You don’t have a concussion,” Manuela says, “but you are acutely dehydrated and fatigued. When was the last time you slept?”

Dimitri, with an incredible flash of insight, surmises it is better if he doesn’t open his mouth. He has nothing to say that would improve this situation. He looks down at Cethleann, who cocks her head. He senses that she is hungry. He should get her something to eat. He wonders where that her sibling is right now. The little dog had taken a strong liking to Ashe and Mercedes. He wonders if anyone has told Dedue about the other dog. 

“The best thing,” Manuela is saying, and Dimitri realises he lost the thread on the conversation at some point, “is uninterrupted rest and an actual meal or two.”

“If we feed food to Cethie,” Byleth starts, “then he usually eats.”

“I’m right here,” Dimitri says, even though he technically wasn’t just a few seconds before. 

“Welcome back,” Manuela says, turning around and holding out yet another vial; Dimitri doesn’t recognise this one. “Drink this.” 

There isn’t any point to asking what it is. Dimitri takes it and drinks it, petting Cethleann’s head with his free hand. Manuela takes the vial, frowning when Dimitri makes the mistake of meeting her eyes. 

“I don’t like giving this on an empty stomach,” she says, not addressing him, “but it should make him sleep.” 

Dimitri feels a spike of anger, but it cannot rise to the surface. He ends up simply turning his head. Manuela, Byleth, and Dedue all look at him. He has a hard time concentrating on their expressions. There seem to be multiples of them. It’s upsetting. It makes it difficult to tell if they are alive or ghosts.

“I need to feed Cethie,” he says.

“I will feed her,” Dedue says, and he stands up, moving closer. “Lie down, Your Highness.” 

“Dimitri,” he says, even as he lies down. “I told you. So many times. Please—”

The world goes black.

Rodrigue is dead.

Dimitri still has his blood on his hands. Armour. Mail sleeves. Felix accepted his father’s body with the face composed and regal. It would have made his father so proud. It hurt to witness. 

He looked at Dimitri, pupils pinpricks. Dimitri did not apologise. Felix did not cry or scream or even speak. He simply took the Sword of Moralta from where it lay across Rodrigue’s chest. Dimitri watched him strap it to his belt and turn away. 

“Felix,” Sylvain said. 

He did not turn around. Did not halt his progress in the opposite direction of his father’s body. Out of camp. Sylvain dismounted his horse, handed the reins to a squire, and ran after him. 

Dimitri watches them go. He steps forward.

He looks upon Rodrigue’s face. His beard. His nose. His jaw. 

Rodrigue gave the House of Blaiddyd everything. First Glenn. Then Felix. And finally, fully himself. 

Before his final battle, he knelt with Dimitri, Cethleann, and Dedue. In the halls dedicated to the Goddess:

They prayed to the Duscur God of War. 

“Your Highness,” Gilbert says, drawing Dimitri’s gaze; his face has new lines. “What should we do with the body?” 

They have too many injured to waste space on dead bodies in the wagons. Based on his reaction, Felix probably won’t be in a state to say anything on the matter. Dimitri looks down again. 

He thinks of his father. The body. The ax that killed him had split his face. He was unrecognisable. Dimitri watched flies and then rats eat his exposed brain. Nostrils. Eyes. When Rodrigue and Gilbert found him, Dimitri was watching carrion birds fight over his father’s skull. 

He knows this is what Gilbert remembers. Gilbert is the only person who understands. 

“I will carry him,” Dimitri says, already leaning down. “Find a shroud.”

Rodrigue is light. Carrying him is just like carrying Cethleann. She and Dedue walk beside him as they make their way back to Garreg Mach. Felix reappears at some point during the night march, and he does not demand Dimitri relinquish his father’s body. He rides behind Sylvain, and Dimitri realises only after a long moment of puzzlement at their position that he is asleep. 

They bury Rodrigue in the graveyard of Garreg Mach without much ceremony and in haste to avoid decomposition. As it is, the body is in awkward rigor mortis when it goes into the ground, which is undignified but better than being left to the open air, scavengers, and robbers. Dimitri leaves while Felix, Ingrid, and Sylvain are still at the grave, not thinking about where he is going. 

He finds himself in the stables. Not near to the horses. Behind and near to the bales of hay. Cethleann lies against his side. Around them, there are several other dogs. All the mottled colours and small to medium bodies of monastery breeds. Cethleann’s sibling is there, too. He is comfortable among the other small dogs as they play. 

They are not war dogs. 

“Cethie,” he starts.

“Dimitri,” Byleth says, and he looks up to find the professor and Dedue approaching, stepping around the curious dogs, “there you are.” 

Dimitri stands up. His back aches but more from carrying the body for nearly thirteen hours than minor scratches and the failed assasination. He is aware, however, that he is not going to escape their inspection. They have been like this ever since Dedue returned. They seem to embolden each other where Dimitri is concerned. 

Rodrigue must have known. Perhaps not the details. But he was the most brilliant of Lambert’s close advisors. He must have envisioned them as Dimitri’s own court, just as he knew that the House of Blaiddyd needed war dogs once again. 

Perhaps a goddess or god touched Rodrigue. 

“Your Highness,” Dedue says, and Dimitri realises he’s been staring off into space. “What are you thinking about?” 

_You are unfit to rule,_ his father reminds him.

He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again.

“In Fhirdiad,” he says as Byleth raises a hand to cast Heal on him, “I need to find Cethleann a companion.”

Dedue and Byleth both smile. They glance between themselves and then to Cethleann. Dimitri looks as well just in time to see her pick up one of the smaller dogs who was attempting to mount her by the scruff of the neck and throw him into one of the hay bales. Dimitri scowls.

“Cethie, good,” he says.

She looks to him, ears perked. She trots to him, tongue lolling. He leans down. Picks her up. 

“Your Highness,” Dedue says, and he steps into Dimitri’s line of view, his arms and hands already extended, “let me. You must be tired.” 

“You must be, too,” Dimitri says, and he blinks; something feels like it has slotted into place in his head. “What time is it?” 

“Time for you to rest,” Byleth interjects, and Dedue tucks his arms under Cethleann’s back and hind legs to take her safely from Dimitri. “Dinner will be delivered to your room.”

Dimitri opens his mouth. Byleth’s lips twitch. 

“For you, Dedue, and Cethie,” the professor affirms before looking to Dedue with a raised eyebrow. 

“His Highness will be there,” Dedue says, mild and very solid.

“I will?” Dimitri asks before he realises how insipid it sounds.

They walk back to the dormitories. Dimitri, after glancing at the sky, ascertains that it is nearly evening. The days are longer, and he can smell very distantly that something is burning. It didn’t rain enough in the late winter to early spring. If he was still wandering or if it was only him and Cethleann hunkered down in Garreg Mach, they might be heading into a very lean season. He might have been forced to rob the saint statues of their gold or worse.

“Your Highness,” Dedue says, soft and warm at Dimitri’s blind side, “we’re here.” 

“Oh,” Dimitri says because he is staring at his own dormitory door, “yes.”

He fumbles around for his key. It’s partially stuck on his belt due to blood spatter. Dimitri unlocks his door, attempting to discreetly check the origin of the blood. It isn’t from a wound on him. It might be from Rodrigue. 

“You know,” Dimitri starts as they enter his room, which smells extremely stale and has a moulding bit of cheese on the floor that Cethleann gobbles up before anyone can stop her, “I think I should take a bath.” 

Dedue’s lips twitch. Dimitri grimaces. Dedue does not say anything as he reaches out to take the wolf pelt from Dimitri’s shoulders. He sets it over the top of the open door of the wardrobe, which still contains several extremely dusty academy uniforms. Dimitri hasn’t attempted to put any of them on. He is aware that he somehow managed to grow, much like Cethleann, despite their extremely irregular food and water supply. 

“Your High—”

“Dimitri,” he says.

He steps from Dedue’s hands to detach his cape himself. He concentrates on the armour ties beneath his left arm. On keeping his fingers steady. 

He thinks of Rodrigue kneeling at his and Cethleann’s feet to receive his command. Of the thing that woke beneath his skin. The sight of that proud head, bowed and submissive: 

Dimitri hated that sight more than anything.

“When we are alone,” he starts, and his voice wavers, but he doesn’t care, “call me by my name.”

Dedue is silent for a long moment. Dimitri doesn’t look at him. His fingers are shaking too much to undo the ties, which have tightened and stiffened from days of wear. He looks down. To Cethleann, who is sitting on his feet. He runs his fingers through Cethleann’s fur. Picks out a small bur behind her ear from the underbrush they had used as cover on the way to do battle. 

“Your Highness,” Dedue says, very sad.

Dimitri looks up. Dedue gazes at him with lips slightly parted. His arms hang by his sides. His eyes shine. 

“While I was gone,” Dedue says, and it hurts to hear the sadness in his tone, free of pity but so deeply self-incriminating, “you did not live well.” 

Dimitri opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again. 

“That is not your fault,” he says, and the words are solid; they allow him to straighten and fully meet Dedue’s gaze. “I will not let you try to own what you couldn’t have prevented in the first place.” 

For Dimitri was always like this. Maybe he didn’t have quite as much trouble with keeping a foothold on reality, but his moods and violence were already a part of him. Dimitri honestly does not remember his life before he watched vultures pluck Glenn’s intestines apart until they burst with any sort of clarity. His memories of his childhood, of sitting at his father’s feet or watching his stepmother embroider or even dancing so awkwardly with young, wide-eyed Edelgard: it is as if those memories belong to someone else. 

“I think,” he says because he needs Dedue to understand, to know without a doubt, “I may not be able to live well. Not with what lives in me. The dead have their home in my flesh.”

Dedue breathes. He steps forward. Reaches up. He shows his palm to Dimitri’s good eye before cupping Dimitri’s right cheek. 

Dimitri lifts his right hand. Cups it around Dedue’s knuckles. He curls his left fingers in Cethleann’s fur. Right fingers over the meat of Dedue’s palm. 

His hand is so warm.

“I am alive,” Dedue says, pleads: “I stayed alive all these years because I thought if I found you, then life is worth living. So, please, let me have a home in you, too. Please grant this selfish request:

“I love you.”

There is a sound. A warbling. A whimper. 

It comes from Dimitri. From his chest. Throat. Mouth. 

For once, the ghosts are silent. 

“I love you, too,” Dimitri says.

Dedue rests his forehead against his. Between them, against their feet and knees, Cethleann is still. Propping them up. Warm and solid and real. 

This is real. 

“I will grant your request,” Dimitri says.

Dedue’s lips are against his brow, nose. He breathes out. 

Five years before, on the Goddess Tower: 

Dimitri sat on Dedue’s lap. Cethleann lay across their knees. From below, the music of the ball filtered up. Everything else felt so faraway. 

“I may not have a future to promise you,” Dimitri whispered. “You know why I am here.” 

Dedue breathed in. Out. It was a little ticklish against the crown of Dimitri’s head. His heartbeat was strong and steady at Dimitri’s back. 

“Then let us wish for your success,” Dedue said, and he smiled as Dimitri turned to see his face, “for I have no wishes in which you do not feature.” 

In the years that follow, Dimitri would lose many memories of those idyllic academy days. 

But this one:

Dimitri leans up. Presses their lips together. 

They are one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connect with me on Twitter [@Metallic_Sweet](https://twitter.com/Metallic_Sweet)


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